


The Promise

by grey853



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:04:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey853/pseuds/grey853
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a promise to John, but can he keep it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Promise

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"That you were going to get yourself bloody well shot if I didn't stop it."

"So, you decided to get shot instead? How brilliant." 

John held his right arm tightly to his chest, cradled it close. It really didn't stop the throbbing pain, but it kept the blood from getting everywhere. The world was swimming in and out of focus. It was hard to concentrate and pay much attention to the yelling.

"You idiot! I should shoot you myself for being so stupid."  
Sherlock shoved him back hard against the stone wall, knocking what little air he had out of his lungs. It was the kind of push where both of his partner's hands stayed on his chest, pinning him in place. The fierceness of Sherlock's low voice eased into a desperate whisper. "John, you're a fool."

Sherlock's forehead met his, solid, warm, and alive, letting John know he hadn't fucked up and failed completely. His own voice sounded shaky. "I couldn't let him shoot you."

"I had a plan." 

"It was a stupid plan."

"It was not."

John wanted to argue, to tell him what a complete arsehole he was to tear away like that, trying to leave John behind so Sherlock could play bait to catch the killer. Unfortunately, his tongue didn't want to work very well. The light suddenly narrowed in, black around the edges. It was just a flesh wound, and he'd had much worse injuries, much, much worse. That didn't stop his body from acting like a pussy, shutting down to save resources. 

He shivered hard and his knees gave way. Sherlock caught him under his arms and eased him to the ground. John slumped and turned his head to the side to vomit his tea and toast. As his eyes closed, he heard Sherlock's panicked voice calling out right before he slipped into an icy darkness. "John? John! What's happening?"

&&&&&&&

Waking up floating in a warm cushion of narcotics always gave John cottonmouth. Not that it wasn't a fine tradeoff, mind you, but still, he hated having to dry swallow so many times to get even a little spittle to clear his sore throat. He croaked a plea for water. The hospital bed cranked up slowly and his head was much higher as a hand brought a straw to his mouth. When he pushed it away after a few sips, he said, "Thanks."

Sherlock put the cup down and stood by the bed. "You passed out."

"You sound surprised."

"The bullet hit an artery in your upper right arm."

That was news John hadn't expected, but it explained the shock. "The brachial artery."

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt so badly?"

"I thought it was a flesh wound."

"But you're a doctor."

"I was shot. Make allowances."

Sherlock scowled at him. "That's a deplorable excuse. If I'd known you were losing that much blood, I would've had you to the hospital sooner."

"It's hard to think straight without enough blood to the brain. Besides, you should've deduced it."

Sherlock's lips thinned. "If there had been enough light, I would have seen it. Even I can't see in the dark."

"Since when?"

Sherlock wrapped his hands around the raised metal rail of the hospital bed, his knuckles white. "Your surgery went well, but they want to keep you here a few days."

Surgery explained the heavy duty narcotics and Sherlock's golden halo as he stood by his bed. "You look like a guardian angel. You're fucking gorgeous."

Sherlock smirked. "You should probably refrain from using morphine in the future."

"Why? Feels bloody amazing."

Sherlock's voice softened as he reached out and brushed back John's short bangs with his fingertips. "I know, but it doesn't last. You're going to feel like hell when they ease you off of it."

John waved his left hand around, ignoring the tug of the IV or the pinch of the fingertip pulse oximeter. "Oh, I remember that."

"I'm sure you do."

"My shoulder was a lot worse than this. I'll be fine, just fine." He sounded sing-songy. He was seriously fucking high.

Sherlock sighed and leaned harder against the railing of the bed. "You should sleep."

John shook his head as he suddenly remembered something important. "You have to promise me first."

"Promise you what?"

"No more running off and leaving me behind. I hate that."

"I didn't want you to get hurt."

"Well, that didn't fucking work."

"No, it didn't."

"And that's because we didn't work together. We're awesome together. We're supposed to be a team, you big twat." John licked his lower lip as his eyelids drooped. They weighed a fucking ton. "I love you, Sherlock, but I hate it when you leave me out of it. Promise me."

As his eyes closed, he heard a faint whisper that trailed off. "I promise..."

&&&&&&&

"You should rest."

John tossed the magazine at his partner's head, but Sherlock was a quick dodger. He'd had a lot of practice. "I don't want to rest. I'm fucking sick of resting."

"And they say doctors make the worst patients."

"Fuck whoever they are. Mind their own damn business."

"I've never seen you quite so irascible. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm not irascible. I'm bored."

Sherlock perked up. He could relate to bored. "You're not recovered enough for a case, but we could play Cluedo."

"I'm not drugged up enough to fall for that. No, I need to get out of here, go for a walk. We could see if Lestrade has something for us, maybe a cold case."

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"It's a simple word, John. No."

"God, you're bloody bossy. If I had enough strength not to fall on my arse, I'd go on my own."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop. "The doctor only allowed you to return home early if you promised to stay in bed the rest of this week. You're not to do anything strenuous."

"Walking isn't strenuous."

"You're not leaving the flat, not until you're recovered and we know that the man who shot you isn't out there waiting to do it again."

John knew deep down Sherlock was right, but that didn't make it easier to accept his limitations. He was as weak as a day-old kitten and that was probably being generous. Still, he was going out of his mind with being treated like a baby by his own partner, a man who wouldn't let a little blood loss faze him. Out of spite, he gave Sherlock some of his own medicine. "Boring."

Sherlock got up and moved over to the sofa, lifting John's feet up before sitting down and letting them fall back in his lap. "Believe me, this hurts me as much as it hurts you." He massaged John's bare feet as he spoke. "I'm not one for inactivity, either, but I did promise not to work without you."

John relaxed and enjoyed Sherlock's touches as his hands moved up and kneaded John's calves. More calm, he said, "I'm sorry for being such a bloody awful wanker."

"It's understandable. 

"That feels good, thanks."

Sherlock continued rubbing John's legs. "You're usually more patient."

"With other people, yeah. I don't like being side-lined, you know that."

"I do, yes. Still, it's a relatively short time considering the gravity of your injury."

John knew he'd been lucky. The vascular surgeon had confirmed that bit of news when he explained how close John had come to either bleeding out or losing his arm. He didn't mean to be ungrateful or testy, but he found restrictions difficult to handle, always had. "I know that." 

"But?" 

Stretched out on the sofa, his feet in Sherlock's lap, he closed his eyes. "But I can't just lie here while the murderer is still out there. We need to catch him before he kills someone else."

When Sherlock's hands stilled, John's eyes snapped open. "Shit. He's already done it."

"Yes."

"And we're not on the case?"

"We will be when you're ready."

"Fuck."

"Lestrade has sent me all the information they have so far. That's what I was going over when you were asleep earlier."

John pulled his feet away and struggled to sit up. He groaned at the painful reminder of his mortality. His arm hurt like a son of a bitch. His painkillers were wearing off way too fast. "Go through it with me."

"John..."

"I mean it. I need to know it all." He held his arm protectively against him and stared at Sherlock, giving him his best determined glare.

"Only if you take your pain medication first."

"I can't take it first. I won't be able to think straight and it puts me to sleep. I'll take it afterward."

Sherlock hesitated, but then nodded. "All right." He got up and fetched the laptop. He sat next to John and opened up the file. "Here's the autopsy report. His name was Patrick O'Hara. He was twenty-five, married, and had a four-year-old daughter." The picture of the victim looked so much like Sherlock that he could be his younger brother. 

&&&&&&&

"No."

"What do you mean no? It's not like you to turn down working on a case, especially one as complicated as this one."

Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm not turning it down. I sent you notes earlier on what to look for. Plus, you have the ballistics on the bullet from the gun that shot John. It's a match to the other victims."

Lestrade looked around and ran a hand through his thick, grey hair. "How is John?"

"Improving. He's not ready to go out yet."

"It was a near thing, him getting shot like that."

"It was."

Lestrade hesitated before he asked, "Is that why you won't leave the flat?"

"I'd have to handcuff him to the bed to keep him here if I left without him."

Lestrade chuckled and nodded. "He is a mad bastard, a real bulldog. I've never seen anybody more protective."

"Which is why I can't go, not yet."

Reluctantly, Lestrade accepted his answer. "All right, but just as soon as he's able, I need you back on this one. We've got five men dead all ready."

"Five men who look like me."

"It's uncanny."

"The fixation or the resemblence?"

"Both, either. This guy, whoever it is, is killing the same person over and over. We need to find him before he goes after another one or comes after you."

Sherlock stepped to the window. "Yes, I know. That was actually my plan before John got shot, to use myself as a lure."

"That's a tosser's plan to go in without backup. He has a right to be pissed."

"So John informed me. I did plan to call you after I had identified him."

"Might have been too late." Lestrade stepped closer, his voice firm. "I don't want to have to deal with John if you ever get yourself killed, you know that, right?"

Sherlock turned, his lip quirked in amusement. "If you found me dead, it would be John's wrath that would concern you more than my demise?"

"You better believe it."

"Well, in that case, I'll have to see to it that it doesn't happen."

"You can start with helping to catch this son of a bitch."

Sherlock motioned at the folder in Lestrade's hand. "I take it those are the latest reports?"

"They are. I didn't want to email them."

Taking the folder, Sherlock opened it up and scanned through the autopsy notes. "It's the same."

"Yes. He violates them after they're dead, not before. Small mercy."

"How is it mercy to kill them first and then rape them?"

"Well, at least they don't know it."

"But they're dead, Inspector. There is no mercy with death."

John leaned against the wall of the stairway wearing his sling and pajama bottoms. He looked wretched. "That's debatable."

Concerned, Sherlock said, "John, you shouldn't be up."

He snapped, "I'm not an invalid. I can still walk around the bloody flat." John turned his attention to Lestrade. "That the latest details of the case?"

Lestrade gave a low whistle. "I've seen better week old corpses, mate."

Unfazed, John shrugged. "Gunshots do that. I'm fine. Let me read it."

Sherlock shook his head. "In a minute. Sit down and I'll get you some tea."

"I can get my own fucking tea."

"John, your obstinacy is tedious."

Lestrade interjected, obviously uncomfortable with the tension between them. "I'm leaving. Let me know what you think when you can. The sooner we catch this maniac, the sooner we can all relax."

John griped, "Until the next one."

"Well, that's why I'll always have a job." 

As soon as Lestrade shut the door, Sherlock put the folder down. He wanted to help John move to the chair, but he knew his partner would react poorly. John had been resistant to any aid beyond the most minimal since his arrival home. "Mrs. Hudson brought you some ham on rye from that deli you like. It's your favorite."

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat."

"That's rich coming from you." John sagged down into the armchair, involuntarily wincing. He was far too pale. 

"I'm not the one who was injured."

"Broken record."

Frustrated, Sherlock handed John the folder and went to the kitchen. He clicked on the kettle and considered his options. John was usually so pliable and companionable. Convalescing John was stubborn and annoying. He needed to find a way to get John back to his normal behavior. He called out, "You do realize that the longer you persist in resisting appropriate measures, the longer it will take for us to get back to the case fulltime."

"Don't turn this around on me. I'm ready to go anytime you are." Sherlock snorted. "What? I am."

"And you call me delusional."

"With good reason most of the time."

Sherlock stepped back into the room from the kitchen. "Is this petulance because you're still angry with me for leaving you behind?"

John hesitated, his eyes not meeting Sherlock's. "No, I don't think so...well, maybe."

"How very resolute."

"Sod off."

Sherlock finished fixing the tea and then returned and handed him the cup. John's left hand was shaky and he wouldn't look up. Sherlock said, "I've upset you."

"No, it's not you."

"I don't understand."

"I know you don't." John put the cup on the side table. "I'm not mad at you, not anymore. I'm angry with myself for letting this happen, for getting in the way."

"You saved my life."

John looked up and snorted. "That's the first time you mentioned that bit."

"I suppose I should've mentioned it sooner."

"You're welcome, by the way."

"I didn't thank you."

"So I noticed."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa across from John and leaned forward. "You got shot instead of me. That's not acceptable."

"You're right, it's not."

Sherlock frowned, not understanding. "Explain."

"It's not acceptable for you to put yourself in a potentially lethal situation, without regard for your own safety, and expect me not to do something about it. It's just not on, Sherlock."

"I told you why I did it."

"Not good enough."

Aggravated, Sherlock shook his head. "I gave you my word not to do again. What more can I do?"

"Say you're sorry for doing it in the first place."

Sherlock clenched his jaw in defiance. "I can't. I'm sorry you got shot, but I'm not sorry I did what I did."

"And that, Sherlock, is our problem. You think you're bulletproof and you're not."

"Well, you're certainly not."

John didn't say anything else, just glared his thunderous best before he stood and went back up the stairs, albeit slowly.

Sherlock bit his lower lip, unhappy. Being in a relationship with a man as pigheaded and complex as John was far more difficult than he first assumed. It was going to take a bit more strategy to get him to understand Sherlock's superior position. It might take a while longer, but he was sure he could win John over. 

There was really only one way to catch this killer. John wasn't going to like it, but he could be convinced with the right motivation. He just had to wait until John was well enough to accept his incentive and give in.

&&&&&&&

Sherlock was a complete moron, John was convinced of it. To be so brilliant, he was really rubbish when it came to being in a relationship. He had no clue what it meant to be equal or be considerate of the other person's opinions. 

Of course, John knew that before he shagged him, so who was the bigger moron? That was the better question.

Lying in his bed, frustrated and hurting, John thought about taking more pain pills. He restricted the use because he wanted to keep a clear head in case of emergency. Still, being a doctor, he also knew he might be slowing down his recovery by doing so. It was just that despite his promise, John didn't really trust Sherlock not to find a loophole in said promise and sneak off on his fucking own again. Devious bastard was tricky that way. 

"I won't sneak off, John." Sherlock stood in the doorway just watching him.

"Stop that."

"That's what you were thinking. It's why you're not taking all your medications."

"I'm taking the antibiotics."

"But you need the pain medication, too."

"You're not a mind reader." At least John hoped not.

"Tell me I'm wrong."

John couldn't answer that the way he wanted, so he didn't. He struggled to sit up and even let Sherlock help him. He hated feeling debilitated, hated this stage of the convalescence. Sherlock handed him the water and the pills. "You should really eat something first."

"I'm too tired. Later."

As soon as John swallowed the Percocets, he lay back again and pulled the covers up with his left hand. He was a side sleeper, but with his wound, he couldn't really get comfortable. He was forced to sleep on his back, which he also hated. In fact there was nothing about the whole situation that didn't make him want to shoot somebody.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and slid into the bed, lining his body up next to John's left side. He was still fully dressed, but that didn't seem to matter to Sherlock. John asked, "What are you doing?"

"I thought I could lie here until you went to sleep." Sherlock slipped his hand onto John's belly, his fingers spread out, the heat like a trigger to John's groin. He shuddered at the touch, and what heated memories it conjured.

"Sherlock, I can't. No strenuous activity, remember?"

"I have no intention of doing anything more than resting here and making you comfortable."

"There's comfortable and then there's horny. You keep your hand where it is and I can't be responsible for what comes up."

"Your puns are terrible."

Which was true, but John needed a distraction. "I'm serious." John already felt the stirrings in his cock. It didn't take much, even in pain and with narcotics coursing through his veins. One touch from Sherlock and he still got hard.

"I know." Sherlock voice, low and sexy, whispered in his ear before he kissed John's neck and nibbled along his collarbone. Sherlock's hand slowly inched below the elastic of John's pajama bottoms. "You don't have to do anything at all except enjoy it."

John gulped as Sherlock wrapped a hand around his erection. Crafty bastard had lube on his palm and was making quick work of a handjob with steady, even strokes, just like John liked. All the while, Sherlock feathered kisses on John's throat and over his chest, paying extra attention to his nipples.

Head swimming, the roar building in his ears, his body flashed up the middle with pleasure. Reds and greens exploded behind his eyelids as he pushed into Sherlock's hand, fucked it with a few quick pushes as he jerked with coming. Panting, all pain forgotten, John grunted out, "Fuck me!"

"I plan to just as soon as you're able."

John's head dropped back hard against the pillow, still overwhelmed by the sensations rippling through his body. "God, that was good."

"It's been too long."

Eyes still squeezed shut, John relaxed into the growing numbness washing over his body. His tongue was too think and the words slurred. "Later. I want to watch you."

"Watch me?"

"Wank. I want to see you get yourself off."

Sherlock lay on his side, his chin on John's shoulder. He breathed warm air into his ear. "I can do that."

John smiled as he drifted off, images of Sherlock touching himself kick starting his dreams.

&&&&&&&

"He'll never go for it."

"John's a reasonable man when given all the pertinent facts."

Lestrade shook his head vehemently. "I'm telling you, he won't, not when it's this risky. Granted, he'd do it if he were the bait, but not you."

"We'll just have to convince him."

"Convince him of what?" John came down the stairs, his hair all mussed and his eyes still droopy from hours of drug-induced sleep. He scrubbed his face with his good hand to make himself wake up.

Sherlock wanted more time to concoct his plan, but saw no other option than to just tell John the truth. "Lestrade and I were discussing a strategy to catch the killer."

John shuffled toward the kitchen. "I need tea and this had better not be a plan where you go out as bait again."

"Told you."

Sherlock shot Lestrade a warning glare. "John, it'll be different this time. I'll have back up."

"You're not fucking doing it."

"You're being unreasonable."

"You're being a prat."

Lestrade chimed in. "Sounds like a stalemate."

Sherlock ignored Lestrade and got up from the chair to step over to where John waited for the kettle to boil. "I'll have a whole team from the Yard making sure nothing happens."

John turned and leaned back against the counter. Pain lines etched his forehead and he rubbed the bandage on his arm. He was still pale and drawn from his injury. Sherlock touched John's shoulder gently. "I promise nothing will happen to me."

"You can't promise that."

"Even if you were well enough..."

John held up his hand. "I know there are no guarantees. I get that. You can't expect me to say it's okay when it's not. We promised not to lie, remember?"

"I do, yes, which is why I'm telling you about this now instead of resorting to obfuscation or subterfuge."

John closed his eyes for several long seconds before he finally said, "So you're going to do it no matter what I say. Why am I not surprised?"

Lestrade joined in. "I don't mean to interrupt, but..."

John snapped at the inspector. "Then don't. This is between Sherlock and me."

Lestrade bowed out. "I'll just wait outside then."

Once he was gone, John asked again, "Are you going to do this without me?"

"If my deductions are correct, this man has lured his victims by way of a gay internet dating site. I've made contact already with the suspect. This is our one chance to stop him, John, to save lives. Isn't that more important than pandering to your ego and the notion that you can protect me better than the whole of Scotland Yard?"

John paled to a chalky white. "Pandering to my ego? Is that what you think this is about?"

Sherlock winced, recognizing the angry tone John only used when he was most hurt by his unfortunate word choices. "That's not exactly what I meant. I just meant..."

"Sod off, Sherlock. I know what you fucking meant. Go ahead, put yourself in danger while I'm stuck here. It's what you've wanted to do all along."

"That's not true. I take no pleasure in working without you. But time is of the essence and this is the only way."

John bit his lower lip before walking out of the kitchen without speaking. As he headed upstairs, Sherlock called to his back. "John?" 

When he still got no answer, Sherlock followed John to their bedroom. His partner sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his head down. He repeated his lover's name, worried that he'd gone too far. "John?"

"You do this and get killed, I'll never forgive you." The words came out hushed and breathy.

Sherlock sat down beside him, taking his left hand in his own. "I won't get killed."

"You can't promise that."

"No, I can't, but I can promise that I'll do everything in my power to come back to you. You're the only reason to even care about staying alive, John. You give me purpose." Sherlock squeezed his hand. "You wouldn't want anyone else to die when I could stop it, would you?"

"Of course not, and don't try to guilt me into feeling better about this. It won't work."

"At least let me do this with your blessing."

"My blessing?" John smirked. "I didn't think you believed in blessings or good luck."

"Perhaps my negative estimation of the psychological value of such sentiments was premature."

John sighed, still reluctant. "I don't know what I'd do if you left me behind for good."

"I won't let that happen."

"I know you believe that. Believing something doesn't make it true. Ask any soldier."

Sherlock reached over and turned John's face in his direction before he kissed him. When he pulled back, he smiled, " I'm meeting the killer tonight. I'll text you as soon as he's in custody."

Nodding, finally accepting, John touched Sherlock's face lightly. "I'd feel better if you included Mycroft in this plan with Lestrade."

Sherlock's expression darkened. "Yes, I know. I did call him."

"And?"

"He'll be supplementing the force."

"Good."

"You know I don't like involving my brother in this sort of thing."

"I know. Why did you?"

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. "Because it raises the odds in my favor for a successful mission."

John leaned his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "This is one gamble that you bloody well better win."

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head and swore to himself to win that wager.

&&&&&&&

Waiting was hell. John hated being in the dark, not knowing what was happening, if Sherlock had pushed his last bit of luck too far or if he was safe. John sat by the window, staring out, his mind running through all the possible scenarios. Nine out of ten ended with Sherlock dead and the suspect getting away. Obviously, trust was still an issue.

Just after eleven, his phone rang. Sherlock always sent a text. "Yes?"

"John, it's Lestrade."

Dread washed over him. "What's happened?"

"We've got the killer, but..."

"But what?"

"There was a bit of a last minute scramble. Sherlock's fine, but he's a little banged up."

The awful roar in his head quieted and John asked, "How banged up?"

"Just some scrapes and a knock to the head. They're checking him out now. He lost his phone and he wanted me to let you know he was okay."

John closed his eyes and sighed in relief. "Thank god." 

"I'll bring him home as soon as they release him."

"Thank you."

"I've got to go. I'll see you a little later."

The connection cut, John lowered his face to his left hand. He wouldn't feel whole again until Sherlock was safe beside him.

&&&&&&&

"It looks worse than it is."

"That's a relief, because you look bloody awful." John surveyed the damage, the cuts and bruises all over Sherlock's face, the puffy lips and black eyes. The right eye was nearly swollen shut. John turned his attention to Lestrade. "Thanks for bringing him home."

"The doctors wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but I figured you'd rather have him home and do the concussion checks yourself."

John nodded. He knew all too well about concussions. "Every couple of hours, I know the routine."

"I'm sure you do."

Sherlock interrupted. "It's entirely unnecessary. I'm fine."

John pointed at him and snapped, "You shut it." Sherlock hushed. 

Lestrade chuckled. "Wow, I wish he'd do that for me."

Sherlock glared at the inspector as John asked Lestrade, "The killer, what happened?"

"One of Mycroft's snipers took him out."

"Then he's dead. Good." Bastard was lucky that John was injured or he'd have been fucking dead a lot sooner.

"Yeah." Lestrade looked from John to Sherlock and then said, "Thanks for letting him do this, John. He saved lives tonight."

Sherlock huffed. "He didn't let me do anything."

Lestrade laughed. "If I were you, I'd know enough not to argue the point. I'll check in tomorrow."

When he was gone, John stepped over to Sherlock who sat in the chair. He gently teased the edges of the bruises with his fingertips. "What is it that he's not telling me?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as John touched lightly along his cuts. "It's over."

"Sherlock..."

"It was a near thing, John." Sherlock opened his eyes. "Right before the sniper's bullet, I thought I shouldn't be here without John."

"No, you shouldn't, not ever again."

Sherlock captured John's hand as it caressed his swollen cheek. "In the past I would've been thrilled at such a success. Now, it seems hollow because I couldn't share it with you at the time. You've ruined me for working alone."

"You weren't alone. Lestrade and Mycroft were there."

"It's not the same."

"I should hope not."

Sherlock kissed the palm of John's hand. "Let's go upstairs."

John didn't argue, didn't protest one bit as Sherlock stood and led them both to bedroom. Carefully, John helped Sherlock take off his shirt. There were fresh bruises blooming over his pale skin, both on his back and chest. "That bastard." John kissed the two largest ones over Sherlock's ribs. 

"He caught me off guard. I didn't expect such an immediate and efficient attack." Sherlock slipped off his pants and underwear. A long thin bruise ran along his right hip. 

"He hit you with some kind of stick?"

"A cane. I should've been more alert."

"You're lucky to be alive."

"I was overconfident. I didn't expect him to behave so aggressively so quickly. Every indicator said I had time to get more information and to lure him out into the open."

John placed his palm over Sherlock's heart. "Never again. I either go with you or you don't go."

"Agreed." Sherlock leaned in and kissed John, but winced and pulled back. 

John touched a finger to his damaged lip. "Later. Let's rest."

"Not yet." Sherlock led John to the chair by the bedside. "Sit."

Puzzled, John followed orders without complaint. Sherlock got in the bed naked, lying on his side, facing John. He reached a hand down between his legs, taking his limp cock in his hands. John's eyes widened in surprised. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"What's it look like?"

"It looks like you're going to have a wank."

"Very astute."

"But you're injured."

"Not that injured."

John snorted. "You're a depraved and sexy man."

Sherlock's hand stroked slowly at first and then a bit faster. His smoky eyes watched John watching him. "I love you."

"I love you, too." John own breathing sped up as he saw Sherlock's eyes close, his erection hard and leaking. John licked his lips, wanting nothing more than to suck Sherlock off, but he couldn't, not feeling like a bloody cripple, but soon. John whispered, "Come for me."

Still pumping his cock, Sherlock moaned deep in his throat, a sound close to a low animal growl. Sherlock opened his eyes again and stared at John as he fucked his own hand. It didn't take long, only a few minutes and Sherlock arched back as he came. He grunted with each uncontrolled jerk, the pleasure washing through him. 

As he collapsed down on the mattress, John got up and came over to stand by the bed. He brushed back the sweaty curls and kissed the top of his head. "You're beautiful." 

Sherlock eyes were closed, but he grinned as reached out and fondled John's erection through his pajama bottoms. "Take them off."

"No, you're done for the night. Well, until I wake you up in two hours."

"John, I didn't do this just for me. I wanted to please you, arouse you. Let me."

"You did, you do. You always please me, Sherlock, even when you're being a prat. I wouldn't trade what we have for anything."

Sherlock's eyes opened slowly and his gaze met John's. Then he nodded, accepting the truth. "You always surprise me."

"How's that?"

"I broke my promise. You should be angry."

"I was, but I got over it. You saved lives and now we have a new promise. Sometimes it takes a while to get it right and to keep it."

"And we have it right now?"

"We do. No more working alone. Promise."

"I do."

John clicked off the light and pulled the sheet up over Sherlock before he climbed in to lie beside him. He put his left arm around Sherlock's shoulders and drew him into his side. "Sleep."

Sherlock rested his head on John's chest, snuggling in close. "You should take your pain pills."

"Not tonight. Tomorrow when you're better, I'll take them then."

Sherlock didn't argue, just relaxed in his arms. After a little while soft snores let John know he'd finally fallen asleep. Looking out into the darkness, John made his own promise, that protecting and loving Sherlock would be his new lifetime job.

The End


End file.
